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Cover of Can't Sell Dope Forever

I work for myself, and I work at home. Some of my jobs pay better than others.

For years, I've been opposed, at least in theory, to the idea of selling out.

I got a graduate degree in creative writing, I was a freelance journalist but never a staff reporter for years, and I'm best known for creating a blog in 2002 that was named after a sex position.

I'm not a fan of selling out, of doing The Man's bidding, of taking the easy way over the hard way.

But then things changed.

It's lucrative.

Ten years ago, I used to write for publications of which you have never heard. They were published in foreign countries, sold in weird stores, had freaky names. They paid me a pittance for my time and extracting payment from them was like pulling teeth from a surly rhinoceros.

I thought this meant I was "cool," "rebellious," and "generally awesome." Looking back, I wonder if it meant I didn't understand the value of my work.

Selling your work for less than it's worth isn't cool. It means you have low self-esteem.

It's freeing.

Now, among other things, I do advertising gigs that pay far, far more than those peculiar publications ever did. The money is great. It's really, really great.

So, am I doing it for the money? Yes and no.

The money buys me time. Time to work on other things. That pay nothing. That may never be published. That I love.

I'm tired of wasting my time caring about things that don't matter. I'm less focused on work and more focused on my happiness. Once I stopped trying so hard, everything came much, much easier.

It's very hard to grow from being someone who thinks banging her head into a wall will change the world into someone who stops caring about stuff that doesn't matter long enough to figure out what makes her happy.

Did I sell my soul to The Man? I don't think so. He can believe what he wants.